Page 26 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“Precisely.”
“Your lord and savior, as you called him.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Mom’s preferred form of worship doesn’t involve William’s abs. I’m probably going to hell for it.” Veronica jokes around and a minute passes by of us, exchanging glances before a smile spreads across her face.
“So, you’re into blonde, buff guys is what I’m getting.”
“Just William Levy, not even the stereotype he embodies.”
“And what was that you said about his abs?”
“Listen, if you want to judge me, do so, but that soup I was promising sounds less inviting the more you talk.” Her hips move a fraction, dragging her feet into her even smaller kitchen. Her kitchen was minimal, just two counters, a stove, and a fridge. But the true charm lay in the artwork, a vibrant collection of paintings that lined the wall connecting the living room and kitchen.
“So, what’s the Telenovela about?” My eyes inspect the drawing ahead of me. The painting, clearly aged with a dusty sheen, still held an interesting scene: a bustling tea shop, yet in the foreground, a woman entered a car, her face streaked with tears, her expression obscured. What stood out was the stark contrast—her small, worn bag and tattered clothing against the backdrop of the opulent, well-dressed patrons.
“A psychoanalyst who falls in love with a girl who has a horrible past.” Veronica explains, hunting for ingredients inside her fridge. “I have some black beans from yesterday. I assume you haven’t had black bean soup.”
“I’m up for anything.” I tell her, placing my hands in my pockets. “So, why is it over a hundred episodes long?”
“The beauty of Telenovelas is simple. Because everything’s connected, there are many plots, and things aren’t always as they seem.” I approached, settling my hip against the counter as she methodically sliced onions, her face remaining perfectly composed. “Besides, he’s a great actor.”
“You have an eye for dramatics, then.”
She chuckles, pulling a few slices of ham from a container before shrugging. “I like to think my life has been so boring that I just gravitate towards some drama.” As our eyes met again, her grin stretched wide across her face. Veronica was fortunate, perhaps unknowingly so, to have this small haven where she could be utterly and authentically herself.
“Drama is all I’ve known. Throughout my whole life.” I murmur it, unsure of my motivation, but the need to express it was undeniable. It dawns upon us, the realization of what happened last night, and I see her smile shrink little by little. She seems to have just remembered the last time she saw me, a drunken mess on some street. “I’m sorry for being an inconvenience.”
Veronica shakes her head, fringe moving with the motions, as she slices vegetables and ingredients like it is second nature to her. Being part of Aseré must have taught her well. “You weren’t—”
“How did you find me? Like, how was I...when you brought me here?”
“You don’t remember?” Her voice carefully tiptoes around the subject, and I hum.
“Part of why I drink is because I get to forget.”
More silence appears within us, and I wonder if this will be the last time Veronica spends time with me. She fills a pan with water, the crinkling of the liquid against the metal resounding against the walls before she speaks up.
“You were about to walk into traffic. Luckily for us, there were no cars around. I stopped you and you...you were crying, so I dragged you into my car and brought you here.” The imagery comes to mind then. The solitude brought back the familiar dread, the pain of what the road had taken. Yet, it still called to me, a dangerous, alluring siren. “I realize we’ve only just met, but I wanted you to have my bed, and I was up all night thinking about protecting you. I should have been there when you went out drinking, but I didn’t realize.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should’ve known you had a valid reason.” Once her hands pour all the ingredients into the pan, leaving the black beans for last, she places her palms on her waist, turning to look at me with worry plastered all over her brown eyes. “Just know that you will always have a friend here, and whatever voice feels like it is screaming into your thoughts will get quiet if I can be there. I just...I know...I don’t know how to voice this out properly, and I don’t want you to think I’m trying to say I will fix you, because I won’t. That’s not my job.” Veronica stops, munching on her bottom lip before exhaling. “I just want to say that your life is worth living, and you obviously need help, but I’ll happily be there by your side as you heal. Because you can and you will. I swear you will.”
Her voice feels like the change from winter to spring, when the heat makes the ice transcend into mere water, dissipating in between my fingers. A hesitant hope bloomed; the thought that I could, perhaps, truly heal those deep wounds if I could only learn to trust in my right to live. But the fragile hope was quickly overwhelmed by a physical tremor, my fingers instinctively seeking the grounding edge of the counter.
Then, the heart that I felt wouldn’t beat within my chest ever again, aching for years to no end, feels taken care of. With a sidelong glance and pursed lips, I subtly revealed a hint of it.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I owe you an explanation, I guess.” I tell her, only to see her shake her head softly. Anyone would have given a kidney, at least, to get an exclusive on the problematic life of a nepotism kid, who had it all and still complained and rioted over what happened in his life. I’m not ready to admit to Veronica that I am a celebrity, for I feel the barest I’ve been, just being a completely normal person to her.
“You don’t owe me shit. Or anybody. Whatever you want to talk about, I’ll listen, but if you don’t want to say anything, then I’ll stay with our silence.”
I feel a soft grin creeping up my features. A million spots I’ve visited come to mind and yet, none of them have people like her. “I want to tell you. I haven’t spoken about this with anybody. I guess I should start thinking of paying for a therapist but...” The joke dies down as quickly as my laughter does, and I know then it is time to get serious. “Okay, here goes.”
Another breath in and the memories come flashing back. Two years ago, when my life went downhill.
